


Destruction and Creation

by daphnerunning



Series: What is Wrought Between Us [18]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dagor Dagorath, M/M, Rebirth, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28088964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: Finally, there was nothing. Maedhros burned.Until...He was needed again.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: What is Wrought Between Us [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019358
Comments: 35
Kudos: 108





	1. Chapter 1

Finally, there was nothing.

Maedhros burned.

If he had still had a _hröa_ , he might have wept with the relief that came with the end of pain.

Gentle arms gathered him.

He was stripped bare, of even flesh.

There was nothing.

Music filtered softly into his _fëa_.

"Even you," it said, every time he protested that it was too much, he did not deserve the gentle sounds, the gentle arms, the end of pain. "Of course, you."

And had it been arrogance, in the end?

Of course it had been arrogance, that he was so different. That he alone was unworthy of the Gifts of Illuvatar.

_But that doesn't set any of it to rights._

"No," said the music, and began to rebuild him. "But penance is not pain."

It should be. He deserved pain.

"And have had it."

He was good at being hurt. He was stubborn, and would endure.

"You need not."

He _wanted_ it to hurt. If it hurt enough, he could pay for his deeds, and there had been so many, so many, he had been a creature of blood and fire since before Melkor was unchained, and why had he been allowed to exist so long?

"Your song is not finished."

It had to be. If it was not the end, then there could be no end, and he was simply too weary of himself to go on.

"You may rest. As long as you need, you may rest. Wait, another Age."

His mother had told him that in the Halls of Mandos, every injury an elf caused to another was visited upon him, threefold.

"This is not a place of punishment."

He had been afraid. After everything, after all he had endured, still he had been afraid of more pain.

"The time for fear is past. Nothing can hurt you any longer."

That had never been true. The others--Maglor, the children, wild Celegorm, his father, his uncle, his grandfather dead at Formenos, the sweet-faced young mariner he'd cut down at Alqualondë, the Ambarussa, laughing Elenwë, Eluréd and Elurín, all his proud brothers who had looked to him, Ilardhel in the caverns, Ereinion who had trusted him, Tyelpë who feared him, Finno, Finno, Finno, Finno--

"And what of Maedhros?"

Let him perish.

"His song is not over."

Let him perish!

"The song must be sung."

Let him end, as he should have ended long ago, in the dark beneath the world. Perhaps he had never escaped, and everything since--

\--beautiful dreams, Finno in his arms, the trees around them, the sky above, a mouth on his, foolish mouth, speaking words of love--

All a dream, and he was in Angband, and the Deceiver Mairon was laughing--

"No. You are safe."

If he had no body, they could not hurt him. Had he not endured enough? He was weary of it. Better not to have a body.

"You will have a body. Wait, another Age yet."

Surely, he, most damned, most cursed, he alone was unpardonable.

"None are unpardonable."

Shadows of regret. To evil end shall all things turn. Slain ye may be, slain ye shall be.

"And has it not been thus?"

By weapon, by torment, by grief. Find little pity, though all whom ye have slain shall entreat for you. None would entreat for him.

"Many have, already."

Long shall ye abide. Long shall ye abide.

"You have been here long. Ages, in Middle-Earth."

Weary of the world as with a great burden. Had any ever been so weary? He deserved nothing else. He, most loathsome.

"The Oath is finished. The jewels have found their homes."

Then what need was there of Maedhros?

"It is not for the Children to remove themselves from the song."

The Dark. The Void. It would take him. He would bring war even to Valinor. Everything he touched turned to ash.

"No longer."

Destruction lived in his soul.

"You are more than a son of Fëanor."

Weary.

"You are more than the Oath you swore."

Weary of counseling. Weary of penance. Hungry for torment.

"You cannot expiate your sins with pain."

Then how?

"Wait. Another Age."

How many?

"At the end of this Age."

Some relief, at last. Perhaps not everything _was_ his fault. The music was kind.

"All things that must be, will be. Blame is never on just one, while Melkor taints the world."

Were the others here?

"All will come here, in the end, and leave again."

Finno?

"In the end, all will come here, and leave when it is time."

Finno!

"Wait. There is a chance."

Had it been wrong? In the end, was it wrong? The only love without shadows, the only bright song in his long darkness. Was it wrong?

"No. It was not."

If it was not wrong, then it was the best of life.

"The best of two lives."

It would have been better if he had remained silent. They could have continued as they were. Finno, a laughing young prince, before gold was in his hair. Finno, living forever, with no stain of fire, with no taint of him, with no weapons in his beautiful hands.

"Long ago, the one you speak of was reborn."

Then he could be happy. The path of Miriel, that was what he should do. But he ached, not to be _with him_.

"Your healing is progressing. You will not be here forever. At the end of this Age."

Sleep, at last. Sleep, for so long. It had been so long since he was able to sleep.

"You may sleep, as long as you need."

What was left, in the song?

"The battle, as it ever was."

A creature of blood and fire. Destruction lived in his soul.

"Yes. But more than destruction."

Always destruction.

"Some beauty may be created only from destruction."

Even now, there was no peace.

"There can never be true peace, until the Final Battle."

Was he being kept back to break the world at last?

"In a way. But it can be rebuilt."

No. Enough destruction. Let him take the path of Miriel, and abide, and let Finno find another.

"That path is closed to you."

He must not go back. None could force him to go back.

"No. Only offer. Soon. Very soon."

Why?

"The world will be worse if you do not."

Must I?

"Only if you wish to atone."

He didn't deserve to atone. But he wanted to, ached to.

"Then only if you wish to save those who would otherwise be lost."

Why me? After all of it, why me?

"Because your song is not finished."

And him?

"His song is not finished. He sings, for you."

Of course he does.

"He comes with his harp and his bow, and asks how high he must climb, what price he might pay."

Tell him I've passed into the Void. Tell him he must be free.

"He cannot be free. There is no statute for him."

Why not? Make one up. The Statute of Fingon and Maedhros.

"He cannot be free, whilst you are not. That is the song that was written for you."

Must I go back? Must I be?

"It has been many thousand years of the Sun since you came to me. Your penance is over."

There are too many I cannot see.

"They have had counsel. They have done penance. None yet live, or live again, who curse the name of Maedhros."

To live? To be free? To walk amongst them?

"Not yet. First, the battle."

The battle?

"The Dagor Dagorath. The final battle. The Day of Doom. The end of Arda Marred."

Blood and fire.

"It will not be the same."

He could not. Let Maedhros languish, if he could not perish. Better than to destroy again. He feared, feared always, would bring downfall.

"It is time. You are needed. The Door of Night is broken."

But--

"He, with his harp and his bow, has been taken by the Enemy."

He--

"Only by the Light of the Trees can he be saved."

Then...

"Will your Father be strong enough? To break them, at the last?"

I don't know.

"The earth is riven. Túrin Turambar rides to war."

Who?

"The jewels have been recovered, from sea and air and earth. It is time."

Finno.

"He is there."

Then...I will come.

"Here is your body. And here, your swords."

Two?

"One in each hand."

Then it must be war.

"It is war."

I am a creature of blood and fire. Destruction lives in my soul. But I will be, again. I will go to you.

With your harp, and your bow.


	2. Chapter 2

Darkness split the sky above Valinor. Morgoth's great maw yawned, discordant laughter breaking the world itself. His head was not quite on right, as if it had been reattached by vast stitches of shadow rather than any mortal flesh. He strode, taller than mountains, the void ever bleeding from his form, wrapped in shadow yet by shadow unmade, ever unmaking.

Great Tulkas rode, war-laughter echoing in his wake like the cracking of thunder. Upon his left rode Eönwë, upon his right rode a Man, and in front, was Manwë himself, crowned with great wings.

The Moon and Sky shone black.

Maedhros felt small.

Without his scars, he was naked, though he was clothed. Without his ring, he was lost, though he knew where he stood.

But the host of Valinor marched, and he saw that many of them had been stranded, sundered from the rest, upon a jagged peak that towered over the seas, whipped into a deadly frenzy by Ulmo.

Stars shot down from the sky. They hit Morgoth in great explosions of sizzling light, and knew his weaknesses. He screamed, and elves clutched at their ears, falling to their knees as the sound rent them apart.

"Now!"

The voice was a mighty cry, and Maedhros's heart lurched. He followed, as he ever had, as he ever _must_ , at the sound of that voice. He ran for the battle, a sword in each hand, and saw with sharp-eyed vision the thousands of elves on the jagged rock above, on what was once a cliff overlooking Alqualondë. They were bound and bloody, some of them already crushed and torn to pieces, and among them was Fingon.

 _No_.

He ran.

Light gathered in front of him. And he saw, for the first time in Ages of the world, his father, tall and proud and powerful, with the fires of creation in his eyes, and all of his wrath was for the Enemy.

The world crumbled around them. All was narrowed to the lashing waves, the falling stars, and the Enemy, crushing the land of Valinor to nothing under his feet.

Then, they were all there.

His father turned, and in his hands were the three shining jewels, lighting his face. Maedhros saw that they stood upon Ezellohar, between the ruin of Telperion and Laurelin, long ago extinguished.

Celegorm clapped him on the shoulder, a wild light in his eyes. "Thought they'd never let you out."

"About time," called Amrod.

"Left it a bit late, didn't you?" Caranthir asked.

"He's here now," said Maglor, and he alone of them looked weary. The rest looked as young as if they had never left the Blessed Shores, even as their robes whipped wildly around, blown by vicious winds.

Soft light surrounded them, blowing back the shadows. Maedhros searched, but could not see through the glow, could not see the cliff. Then Yavanna was in front of them, barefoot and slender, a shining hope upon her face. "It is time. Will you give them to me?"

There was a moment of hesitation. Arda shuddered. For a moment, the blackness deepened, as Fëanor, son of Finwë gazed down at the jewels between his fingers.

_"Will your father be strong enough?"_

Then Fëanor's head snapped up, and he flashed a ferocious grin, setting the jewels at Yavanna's feet. The fire of creation burned in them, and in his soul. "Take them back."

"Break them."

Doubt and pain shattered onto Fëanor's face, and he grit his teeth. "I give them to you. I cannot unmake them. Ask no more."

And Maedhros understood.

Creation lived in the soul of Fëanor, son of Finwë.

Destruction lived in the soul of Maedhros, son of Fëanor.

He did not stop. He did not think. He switched his grip on one of the swords he brought with him from the Halls of Mandos, and found that it was no sword, but a hammer.

And thus it came to pass that Maedhros brought the hammer down, and the Silmarils were broken.

Light flared, brighter than the Trees had ever been. Morgoth screamed.

Yavanna sang.

Maedhros left the hammer upon Ezellohar.

As the Light of the Trees blazed and was renewed, he ran, sword in his left hand. It felt right there.

Could he climb the peak?

No.

Still he ran, hearing the battle all about him, dodging arrows and shadows, feeling his body unmarred and unpained for the first time he could remember. There was no time for joy; he had to get to the peak, had to, nothing else would do--

And then the Eagle came.

It lifted him by the arms, beating great wings that caused tornadoes in the turbulent storm. He was whipped by the currents, nearly deafened by the eagle's war cry, and laughed from the sheer glory of the moment. From long below, he thought he saw Manwë turn in the middle of his battle, and give him a single wink.

Then he was on the peak, and landed running. He expected pain in his knee, and was startled not to feel any.

But of course, he was remade.

He ran to Fingon's side, and found him bound, lashed by shadow. The ugly pulsing things had taken thousands of elves, bound them from mouth to knee, and was twisting and squeezing them, keeping them out of the way of Morgoth's grand designs.

His sword flashed, and the shadows fell back, screeching with pain. He cleaved them, and everywhere he did, white fire flashed, driving the creature back towards the stench of the dark pit, splitting it from its foul host at last. "Finno? Finno!"

Fingon looked like an elf in the prime of his first youth, lovely and unmarked--but bloody, grey-faced, staring up at him. " _Maitrus?"_

Maedhros grabbed him, and then Fingon was in his arms.

Behind him, he thought Morgoth came to an end at last, smote down by the dread sword Gurthang, and Aman was rebuilt, a paradise under the Trees, where all elves would be renewed and could live in bliss forevermore.

Eru loved the elves, and loved their songs, _and_ granted to them a place to live, to thrive, to become new, while the Second Song began.

At least, that was what he'd heard happened, later, when he let Fingon go at last.

But Fingon was in his arms, and Maedhros wasn't really paying attention to anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Thank you all for sticking with me through this wild ride!! Two more parts to go--one epilogue, and one side story (how did Maglor get here?). Thank you so much!)
> 
> (btw even if you are reading this 20 years after I posted it I promise I still read comments and appreciate every kudos)


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